YE sons of Folly, sing, Whate'er betide: On ills that life may bring Lean not, but glide. Pleasure costs not, nor hath Sad tearful showers, But scatters on our path Delightful flowers. Yes! Joy's delirium bear Where'er you go; And laugh, devoid of care, At weal or woe. Long as your mistress loves, To her be true; If she inconstant proves, Do you change too. Life's winter on doth haste, Soon flits our prime; Let us not therefore waste Our little time. Who can the future know-- What fate may send? To-morrow, ere it go, Our life may end. |